Identity

“Sure.”

Using the bar mop to keep herself steady, Morgan checked on the stools. The spicy fries couple didn’t have much to say to each other, she noted. Alcohol and carbs couldn’t always fix a bad mood.

The two women giggling together as they drank Chardonnay made her think of the dead woman and her friend in New Orleans, and her heart hurt.

At the end of the bar, Miles worked on his phone.

“Party of five,” Bailey reported. “Two Heady Toppers, a mojito, margarita rocks, and a Merlot.”

“Thanks. How about you handle the beer and wine?”

She took the drinks out herself, let the cooling night air wash over her as she crossed the patio.

“On me,” she said as she served, “with a mortified apology.”

“Well, thanks, but no big deal. Might’ve been if you’d landed that punch I think I saw coming.”

“My right hook’s devastating.” Smiling, smiling, smiling, she flexed, and cleared a couple of empties while his companions laughed.

“I bet the ex is a handsome bastard.”

“You’ve got him beat on the handsome part. Thanks for understanding. Enjoy.”

Steadier, she walked back inside.

Spicy Fries finished up, and left a single dollar on the bar as tip. Giggling girls ordered another round at last call.

Morgan had Bailey serve them, then handed her the dollar.

“Keep this as a reminder. You can do everything right, and some people will still stiff you.”

“What a jerk.”

“Pretty sure his wife agrees. Regardless, if he comes in tomorrow, we still do everything right.”

“Because we take pride in our work even when the guest’s a stingy jerk.”

“Even when. And because we represent the resort.”

By one, a few guests lingered, inside and out, as staff cleared tables. Giggling girls called it a night, laughing their way out as not–Gavin Rozwell stopped by the bar.

“Thanks for the drink.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

“If you ever want to talk bad breakups, over drinks on me.” He put a business card on the bar, flashed a smile. “Glad you didn’t land that punch.”

“Me, too.”

As he left, Bailey leaned over. “He was totally hitting on you.”

“You’ll have this.” She stuck the card in her pocket. “Miles will want a glass of ice water, still, then you can clock out. You did really good tonight, Bailey.”

“I can stay, help you close.”

“You already have. You emptied the trash, replaced the liners, cleaned and locked the beer taps, cleared the ice bins. Cleaned and restocked glasses. I’m getting spoiled.”

“Opal said I could have a couple hours Tuesday if Nick’s willing. I work days on Tuesday.”

“Good idea, and he will be. You’ll see the different styles and rhythms.”

With the last guests heading out, and the staff calling their good nights, Morgan continued the closing process, only pausing when Miles came behind the bar.

“Sit.”

“I still have to—”

“I know how to close a bar. Sit.”

“You don’t necessarily know how I close a bar, plus it’s my job.”

Ignoring her, he began wiping down bottles. “I worked the backbar for a couple months back when. Bailey’s already got a lot of this done.”

“She pays attention.” And, Morgan thought, so do you.

They worked in silence. Once she’d restocked the beer and wine coolers, she started to lock them.

“Don’t lock the wine cooler, and go sit. Is Cab your drink, or do you want something else?”

“I didn’t say I wanted a drink.”

“If you wanted one, what would it be?”

She’d never thought of herself as particularly stubborn, but even if she were, she didn’t think she’d reach his level.

“Maybe something lighter. Pinot grigio.”

He poured a glass of red, a glass of white, then locked the wine cooler.

“Let’s take these outside. You may be tired,” he continued, “but you’re wound up with it. So wind down.”

He took both glasses, waited for her to cross over and open the door.

When she’d closed it again, he took the closest table, sat.

“Did he really look that much like Rozwell?”

Shaking her head, she gave up and sat. “No. The build, the hair, and he was dressed in that I’m-casual-but-stylish way.”

“Uh-huh. Did Jen teach you to chase down a murdering bastard and punch him in the face?”

“Of course not. I just … reacted.”

“I was sitting right there. Security’s a couple taps away on your phone.”

“I couldn’t think, sure as hell didn’t think.” She sampled the wine. Cool and light, like the air. “It’s not an excuse, but I don’t think I’d have reacted that way except he killed another woman.”

“When?”

“I don’t know exactly. A couple weeks ago. I just found out. He got another credit card in my name,” she continued, and told him.

“They found his hotel. He either dyed his hair or wore a red wig. He checked out the day after he killed her and took a cab to the airport. But he never went in the terminal. He stole a car from long-term parking. He had five days before the owner got back and reported it, so he could be anywhere.”

“He wouldn’t have gotten past Security and walked into Après.”

“I didn’t think about Security. I didn’t think at all. I panicked.”

“No.” Miles kept his gaze locked with her. “You didn’t panic until you realized you’d grabbed the wrong guy. Up until then, you looked ready to kick some ass. Are you prone to panic attacks?”

“Not before. Not ever. Since? I’ve had a few, I guess, but nothing like that.”

“Mad’s better, if you can hold on to it. Are you going to call him? The guy you mistook. He gave you his card,” Miles added when she looked blank.

“Oh. No. Definitely no. First, it’s bad policy whatever the circumstances. Second? Circumstances. Add the last guy I dated—and only a couple times at that—turned out to be a serial killer. Sort of puts you off the process.”

“You’re feeling better.”

She tipped her head back to look up at the stars. “I guess I am.”

“Then there’s the asshole with the fries.”

“Oh yeah. He was a winner.” She lifted her glass in toast. “The sort who knows leaving a single on the bar’s more insulting than leaving nothing.”

“What’s his story?” Miles wondered. “You’d have one.”

“He likes being an asshole. It makes him feel important, especially when it’s to service people or underlings. He wore a Rolex, looked like the real deal, and his room number’s one of the suites on the Club Level, so he can afford to be generous. He’s just not made that way. He’s a terrible boss, impatient, demanding, and rude because he can be.”

Sipping his wine, Miles watched her. “What about his wife?”

“She didn’t say a word, but she shot me one quick look. It said: You think this is bad? You should see what I put up with. I’d say she’s about done putting up with.”

She shrugged. “That’s my take from behind the stick.”